Wednesday, August 8, 2012

high and dry

Something between us and the ocean is on fire. Here on the ridge there is no urgency to it, just the smell and an expansive haze where the horizon ought to be. I imagine small flames meandering low to the ground.

The wind is rising; when it reaches the oak-matted hillside it breathes a slow roar that sets the canopy swirling and my hair on end. The high cloud has gathered itself into a steel-bottomed bank; sun slips through in streaks and spangles. I'm more wishing than waiting for a storm to break. There won't be one, of course. We are where we are.

At sunset, though, hours later, small tears in the sky burn with a fierce white light.

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